A young man struggles with the grips of depression and a beautiful girl takes interest in him. As she tries to welcome him back into a life of living and loving he still continues to slip through her fingers. Losing time, she desperately tries to save him

She was the type of girl everyone loved. The girl you had in your
freshman English class who still said 'hi' to you senior year as
you were on your way to the cafeteria to pick up your cap and gown.
The kind of girl who said 'hi' to the loners, and wasn't
thought of any differently except that she was a wonderful human
being. Actually, wonderful was putting it lightly. There were never
any words when anyone was asked to describe her. Gorgeous couldn't
cover her beauty and brilliant couldn't cover her mind. She was
ranked twenty-five in her class of four hundred and six. Bloody
genius compared to number two hundred and eleven out of three hundred
and two. Yes, that's me. Number two hundred and eleven. For three
years in a row. I figured it a damned good accomplishment. And, I
happened to find it a nice round number, only seven hundred off from
being 9-1-1, which apparently only I found utterly hilarious. My
parents didn't, but it didn't matter because they were out of the
picture by my junior year.

My mom had lost her fight to cancer when she was forty-five, at the
close of my junior year. I found out when I was in my math final, the
perfect time to get life shattering news that the woman who raised me
was now dead. And not only that, but a few weeks into summer my dad
thought it would be hilarious to have a mental breakdown and kill
himself in our kitchen. I could never describe how joyful I felt to
see his scattered brains spilt on our perfect white linoleum kitchen
floor, his life shattered like the wine glass he had in his hand
without the gun.

I had just washed that floor the night before.

It could have been days that I stood there staring, unmoving, and
numb at the image of my dad's rotting body on the floor. The smell
must have gotten to me at one point; I think that was when I fainted.
When I woke up I sprinted to the bathroom and puked in the toilet
quite a few times or however many times I felt would clear the stench
from my throat. I didn't go back to the kitchen; I went to their
bedroom and picked up the phone. My fingers were trembling horribly,
but I got the buttons 9-1-1 pressed. Only seven hundred away from my
class rank number.

The ambulance came, though by the smell of the house I'm sure they
figured out my dad had been rotting for some time now. Bastard
probably shot himself after breakfast. I know I'd think to put a
bullet through my eye socket after downing two sunny side up eggs
with a side of toast and bacon. In fact it's the perfect way to die
in my mind. Next to of course shooting straight through my scrotum
and letting my balls unravel in a heaping mess of blood until I die.
That would definitely be my next choice.

I tried to tell this theory to my cousin at the funeral but,
apparently sarcasm isn't welcomed in the presence of death. I found
this odd seeing as irony was perfectly welcome. My mother had told my
father to look after me because these were my "precious years of
life" you know? All that going to college junk, and he goes and
shoots himself. Maybe he caught a peak at the tuition prices in the
local newspaper and freaked. That's the story I stuck to for the
rest of my life. Not that I ever told anyone outside of those who
already knew but, it was much more comforting in my head to say he
freaked at the cost of sending you to college and now you'll never
have to go, rather than he only lived to love your mother but you
weren't worth the troubles of life.

It was arranged for me to live with my wonderful Uncle Melvin. Now,
don't get me wrong Uncle Melvin's a pretty awesome guy but he's
not too bright. In fact, his right hand proves my theory correct.
Apparently he thought oven mitts weren't a necessity to pull the
cookies out from the oven… Or maybe it was tater tots. Either of
which didn't leave Old Uncle Mel in good standings of intelligence
and I'd often blamed my two hundred and eleven class rank standing,
on him. Uncle Melvin lived ten minutes away from my house, or what
used to be my house and was now the government's. He didn't have
much but it was enough to survive my senior year. I went to the same
school, or so I was told. But apparently rumor had spread that my
parents were dead and now I was some kind of freak that wasn't to
be communicated with.

Girls looked at me with sympathy, which I didn't want, and yet
couldn't miss the opportunity to milk my situation for all it was
worth. I tried not to take too much advantage of the attention by
peeking down a few of their blouses as they bent over my desk to ask
me if anything was wrong, though my eyes occasionally slipped further
south than I could control. Of course I tried to hide it, I'm not
one to brag; and it would definitely ruin my avoidance from the guy
population who looked at me now as if I was about to burst any moment
with anger and violence and rip their faces off. I have to say, it
was tempting.

In any case it did not feel like my same high school.

I had managed to scrape by and walk across that stage with the rest
of the class, but my parents weren't in the bleachers, so it didn't
matter anyway. And then college came. Good ole' city college. The
university for dummies and number two hundred and elevens. I was
signed up for four classes. Bonehead English, bonehead math, a
psychology class (the happy alternative for chemistry) and art
appreciation, which I started to appreciate more and more as I
discovered the hottest girl on campus was in my class. I lost
interest in the slide show quickly every day, and simply began
staring at her. She sat two rows to the right and three seats ahead
of me. Dark hair that was straighter than paper and just a few inches
short of her waist, and two bright blue eyes that took in the world
as it was filtered through long black lashes. And there was no doubt
that perfect smile shaped mouth could produce the most perfect kiss.
Her neck was long, slender, and led to a slightly pronounced
collarbone and the perfect swell of her chest. She was a fan of
spaghetti strapped shirts and backless tops, which I had no
complaints about. Every single shirt provided the perfect display for
the two identical palm sized globes settling on her chest.

Every day after class she walks through the quad in the direction of
the library. She says hi to the cheerleaders gathered by the huge oak
tree, the nerds playing chess in the shade of the maple trees, the
retards in the wheelchairs, excuse my insensitivity, and a few more
people who she passes. And each and every single one of their faces
light up as if she was a bloody saint sent from the lord almighty.
Not only does she know half the student population, she studies every
day after class before she has to leave for her next one. Before you
start thinking how weird it must be that I know her schedule the
truth is I don't, but I had enough trouble with grades in high
school and now that I'm paying for my education I better try at
least a little harder to make it through. So every Tuesday I follow
her route to the Library where I sit and try to read a chapter or two
in my text book.

The thing is she's too distracting. I peered up from my text book
one day and saw her flash a glimpse of a smile, but I looked down so
fast I couldn't even be sure if it was for me. It wasn't fair
that someone so pretty could be unmarred by distractions as she
studied and one split second smirk has me reeling over two words in
the chapter for the next ten minutes. I'd try to tell myself it
wasn't that great of a smile, didn't even show any teeth, but I
knew damn straight if it happened again I'd probably be floored. If
I was one of the retards in the wheelchairs and caught a glimpse of
that smile I'd probably piss my pants. Not to mention I couldn't
possibly distract myself with thoughts of if she ever said hi to me.

I was able to clear my mind of her while I was at home. Not having
her in a one mile radius the whole day helped me to calm down. I'd
do my homework, most of the time, and then I'd grab my guitar if I
felt like it and play some little nothings. I wasn't that good at
all but I liked plucking at the strings like a loser. It helped my
self-esteem a whole lot. I never got excited for the next day, no
matter what I knew was going on in class. It'd be the same people,
same teacher, same subject, they weren't going anywhere for the
next four months, and neither was I. I was stuck here in this
deadbeat town until I died.

It occurred to me that both my father's death and my chosen second
favorite were far too morbid and far too messy. Suffocation. That's
the way I wanted to bite the dust. Plastic bag or drowning, either
way was slow and painful. If suicide was the chicken's way out I
figured drowning myself might be the bravest method to it. Then again
of course I could look directly into the eyes of dream girl, that
might knock the air out of me long enough to die. Damn it. There she
was again. Haunting my mind as always. I hate saints. I didn't even
go to church.

Uncle Melvin ordered a take-and-bake pizza and burnt it lightly on
the bottom. I took two slices anyway and went to sit at the dining
room table and glance into the TV. Election time. The news was always
going, twenty-four seven in this house. Mel might not have been too
bright but he certainly had an interest in politics. Personally,
liars in controlling offices appealed to me just as much as the
memories of my dad saying he loved me. I glanced up just enough to
catch a glimpse of the two lead candidates, but forced a block into
my mind so I didn't have to listen or think about it. The pepperoni
on my two slices of pizza was slightly singed as was the sausage. I
shoved one piece into my mouth one bite at a time, chasing each with
a sip of soda to help down the crunchy crust.

Melvin asked me how my day was, though his eyes were preoccupied with
the television set, so I didn't bother him with details. He asked
me if I had met anybody yet and my mind flickered briefly to the
dream girl. I said no. Thanking him silently in my head for the
distractions I would have now as I went to bed, for that flickering
thought was not easily put to the back of my mind again. I slept
horribly. I always did. However tonight the vision of the dream girl
interrupted my choppy nightmares, and I wasn't sure which one I
preferred. Haunted by beautiful women I would never have the courage
to talk to, or nightmares about my parents' ingenious plans for
life? It was definitely a tough choice, but luckily I got the best of
both worlds because she walked into the kitchen just as my father put
a bullet through his head. All she did was stare at the body, as
unmoving as I was.

The next day was a Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays. It was bright and sunny
and hotter than hell outside when our brilliant teacher decided we go
out to the grass to have a drawing lesson. I couldn't help but
wonder how this fit into a college education but after a slight groan
I didn't argue. After all, I would be able to see this dream girl
in actual light and not in a dark lecture hall. We filed outside and
claimed a spot on the bright green grass despite the fact that it
itched my calves like poison ivy and I was constantly swatting little
tiny bugs off of my books and papers. And of course it could only get
worse as dream girl herself decided to sit down next to me, graceful
as can be, with her hair braided in two pigtails. She tied a scarf
around her hair to match the light green skirt she wore, which
rendered her absolutely helpless as she tried to sit. She settled
her books next to her and folded her legs to the side, looking up at
me with a great smile that caught me off guard.

"Hi, I'm Macy Collins," She reached out her hand towards me and
I looked at it, dumbstruck as to what exactly she wanted me to do
with it. Reaching out to shake it briefly I couldn't help but
notice how my hand engulfed hers in a sea of rough callus, and I
quickly pulled away.

Ou, Macy Collins…Fancy. "Blair," I said curtly but politely,
turning my head away and scooting discreetly in the opposite
direction.

She didn't seem to notice, "So what are you majoring in?" She
asked.

"No idea," I mumbled, grateful that the teacher had begun
teaching her lesson.

It confounded me that this beautiful creature would even want to
socialize with me; I've got holes the size of sipping straws in my
ears that I put there voluntarily. I've also got a pierced eyebrow
and tongue and haven't worn a color other than black or white since
the day of my father's funeral. As I've been told, I used to be
rather attractive, my mother was a very pretty woman and my dad was
quite the hunk in his younger days but after their death I saw no
reason to celebrate color or perfect appearance. Today wasn't much
better than any other day, my hair was gelled into disarray, my black
T-shirt sported a band logo on the front and my black dickies shorts
reached just past my knees.

I could tell she was taken aback by my rudeness but I sensed she
wasn't going to give up.

The
teacher rambled on about finding something to draw, it didn't have
to be pretty, it just had to be what we would consider art. I hated
still life. Seemed to me that life was always moving and never still,
why else would I be here on this very Tuesday instead of standing in
my kitchen staring at my dead father? The class scattered before I
realized what was going on, and I got up quickly before Macy Collins
could start another conversation. I walked over to the wooden bench
at the end of our boundaries and stared at a crack in the cement
where a small weed was pushing its way up towards the sun. I set to
work drawing this on the paper I had grabbed nonchalantly as the
stack passed by me. Was I interested in this weed? Did it represent
some sort of obstacle in my life or what my life had become? No. It
was a weed. I had to draw something. Simple as that.

Sure
enough Macy Collins sat herself down next to me, her drawing
pad on her lap and perfect tiny hands holding her pencil so
delicately I was amazed it wasn't sliding out of her fingers.

"You
know that's not bad," She said leaning over my shoulder slightly.

I
closed my eyes. I wasn't angry, in fact I think part of me was…what
was that emotion called again? Excited? Happy? Something along those
lines because my chest was tingling the slightest bit. However this
dream girl would find nothing of what she deserved in me and I was
determined to let her see that. Besides, it would be an honest
miracle if someone like her who could walk amongst the A crowd with
her chin held high, would like to know more about the dark presence
lurking in the back of her art appreciation class. Appreciation,
isn't that a funny term to name a class? I don't appreciate art
at all. It seems dreary to me that people would want to put colors on
paper when they can see them clearly every day. But that's getting
off topic now.

I
nodded slightly to her comment but paid no more heed to it. I
couldn't invite a conversation with her that would lower her social
status; I mean already people were staring at this beauty and the
beast scene taking place before them. She could tell them we were
stuck in a theater production together and we were rehearsing one of
our scenes that day on that bench.

"Are
you shy?" She asked softly.

What
a question. Am I shy? Well no, I'm not shy that's why I'm
bursting with conversation and obviously satisfying your need to know
what I'm all about. "Not necessarily." I muttered, trying hard
to concentrate on the weed in front of me but her hand was only two
inches from my thigh and the only thought clouding my head was that I
wanted to place mine over it.

Macy
Collins furrowed her brow and began sketching the fountain
that was ten feet in front of us in the center of the quad. It wasn't
a complicated fountain, yet with the way she was drawing it I thought
it might have been the most beautiful fountain anybody had ever seen.
She waited a few more seconds before shrugging and putting her pencil
down, "If I'm bothering you I can leave." She said.

I
finally took the chance to look up at her and definitely regretted
it. Whatever doubts I had about suffocating under her gaze, were
indefinitely proved correct. I furrowed my brow confusedly and then
quickly tore myself away from her soft stare, "No, no you're not
bothering me."

Her
face seemed to brighten up, but I couldn't tell for sure. You can
only catch so many facial expressions out of the corner of your eye.
Of course I wanted her to leave, but simply for the fact that I
didn't think it would be a particularly wonderful sight if I
dropped dead from loss of air if I managed to make eye contact again.
The thought of me curled on the ground all blue and purple and
swelling with the stink of death nearly made me laugh out loud but
then that would have raised a question and I didn't have a lie big
enough to cover that image.

"Where
do you think you'll transfer to?" She asked casually.

I
shrugged, "Maybe nowhere."

"Nowhere?
You're just going to get an associates?"

I
shrugged once more, "Don't really have any interests."

"That's
hard to believe."

Finally.
A statement I didn't have to answer.

"What
did you like to do as a kid?"

Damn
it. "Draw pentagrams on the side of my house and burn babies as
sacrifices to the Wiccan gods." I figured this would be a weird
enough answer to scare my death threat away but she merely laughed.

I'm
pretty sure I must have looked as though she punched me in the gut as
I looked up, I was definitely not expecting that reaction. She smiled
back at me, "Well, I'm sure there's some department that will
take you."

"You're
laughing."

"It
was funny."

What
– Who was this girl? Devil worshipping funny? What if I actually
did that?! "Who's to say it was a joke?"

She
chuckled more softly, "Well then I hope they were bad babies.
Though I hear goats are much better in cases of sacrifices. The gods
like their blood more I think," She put on a contemplative face as
she leaned back a little bit.

"No,
the babies are sweeter, besides they make more of a fuss when you
kill them."

She
snickered, "That's horrible."

"And
yet the smile is still on your face," I muttered.

"Hmm?"
She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh-"
I fumbled for words, then I figured I'd ask the obvious, "Why are
you talking to me anyway?" I asked as politely as I could.

She
shrugged, "You seemed interesting."

"Interesting?"
I asked, looking up and glancing at all the cheerleaders gathered by
the Oak tree that were whispering and peeking up at the odd sight of
seeing us sitting together.

"Yes.
Interesting."

"Well,
I'm sorry to disappoint but there's not much to learn," I
finished my weed drawing and started to stand up.

"I'm
sorry you think that," She stood as well and I wondered briefly if
she was even finished with her drawing.

We
walked back to the grass and sat down, she again by me and I again
slid away discreetly. We kept our drawings in our lap and waited a
couple more minutes for the professor to return from her post to
collect and talk about our masterpieces. I was sad to say my weed
looked like a sorry explosion at the corner of two blocks of
sidewalk. While Macy Collins's fountain looked like a work from
heaven, then again, the woman was a saint. I thought briefly
that maybe she was trying to "save" me. You know, rescue my life
from corruption and purify my soul to feed to Jesus or however that
junk worked.

"What
high school did you go to?"

"What
questions don't you ask?" I replied snidely.

"Questions
you don't have answers to."

"Touché,"
I grinned. But once I realized the corner of my mouth was higher than
its normal standpoint, I wiped it off my face, "Bader High School."

"Oh!
One of my best friends went there for a couple years actually, do you
know Austin Tally?" She leaned closer.

I'd
heard of him before. Who hadn't? The captain of the football team
didn't step lightly through high school. "Yeah," I said through
clenched teeth.

"What
about Toby Grit?"

Toby
Grit was a stretch. He was the math club president. Total nerd, yet
totally discreet about it. Except for the mathlete patch on his
letterman jacket, he went through high school holding a few close
friends and no problems about his status on the academic side. He was
number three. It was very obvious at graduation he was not happy to
be sitting in the crowd while the valedictorian and number two gave
their speeches to the departing class.

I
nodded and kept my eyes pointing away from her, hoping not to invite
any more questions though by now I should have realized that was as
hopeless as an anvil dropping from the sky and crushing me where I
sat.

Thankfully
our professor started the discussion of our works, and I didn't
have to wait unsuspectingly for another question to pelt me from
behind. Each student except me, for I had a talent to go unseen,
explained their work of "art" even though some looked like no
more than scribbles. Most didn't have anything to say. There isn't
much to say about a blade of grass really. You could make up a story
about how a great ant conquered the blade and walked all the way to
the top, and during his victory dance was swept away by a hungry blue
jay, but let's get real. Who has that kind of creativity in this
art "appreciation" class. Half the class didn't even have a
reason for drawing exactly what they had on their paper. Or not
enough sense to say it struck their fancy.

The
class was dismissed and before Macy Collins could strike up
another conversation with me I started power walking to the parking
lot. It was Tuesday, my study day, but there was no chance I was
facing her in the quiet constraints of the library. I was going to my
car, where I would sit like the loser I always had been, until my
next class.

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